Tag Archives: fun stuff!

I used to make a real point to write on the old blog a few times a month. Then once a month. Maybe. Give it a shot.

Not it’s like, twice a year.

It’s not like I gave up writing. Frankly, it’s all I ever do. If I’m not writing an actual story for an actual newspaper, I’m writing notes and lists and texts and emails and thoughts and ideas and facepage posts. I’m telling the kids when I’ll be home and telling old Jimmer what’s for dinner and telling myself not to freaking forget to take in the taxes yet there they sit… on the counter… I still have 15 days, don’t judge me.

I’m busy.

Not crazy busy.

But busy.

Enough that it took me a solid 10 minutes to figure out how to make a new post because all my neat-o wordpress options have changed.

So it’s no surprise that the passage of time has prompted me to have a good hard think about the passage of time.

“Are you going to be sad when I go to high school next year?”

Actual words from my actual child’s mouth. He’s going to be a freshman in the fall.

Bring on the woe is me, the “oh noes my baby boy,” the fear upon the realization that he’ll be legally behind the wheel in just over two years.

But then I saw some mommy blog crap, and my fears of “cannot believe my baby is growing up” came to a screeching halt.

Now, just a disclaimer. I really dislike mommy blogs. Like. A lot.

Probably the biggest reason that mommy blogs grind my gears is that they always appear to be written by women between the ages of 25 and 35 with only toddlers underfoot. They want to share their sage wisdom or hilarious stories of failures now that they are experienced moms with all the answers.

Even though they don’t yet know the horror of the 45 minute shower. Or wondering where all the hand towels went. Sippy cup problems are pretty ridiculous when your teenaged son morphs into a Disney princess sprawled across the bed shrieking “YOU DON’T KNOW!”

And I haven’t even hit real dating and high school dramz yet.

I often see mommy bloggers as embellishing storytellers with tales so ridiculous and way too long that sound like they come from jackasses who changed their email addresses to DylanandXandersMommy@Ihavenoidentity.com

Scary Mommy is the worst. If you Google “Scary Mommy Truth” you get 420,000 results, with hits including “the truth about divorce,” “the truth about having a third child,” “the truth about snow days” and my very favorite, “the universal truth of motherhood.” Spoiler alert – according to that post, the universal truth of being a mom is that we never again get to use the bathroom alone. Which is a hella lot of bullshit, get some god damn control over your home and your children and piss like a civilized human with the door closed, it literally takes a few seconds. My lord.

There’s also a “confessional” which rivals the Penthouse forum. It’s really weird.

So Scary Mommy and her sister blog sites share those DOWN TO EARTH truths about motherhood that I don’t identify with at all. But at the same time, these things have something like a bijillion readers so obviously people like it and whatever, it’s just me. Others relate so that’s cool.

But yesterday I spotted this one – NOT Scary Mommy – and it irked me off more than usual:

Featured on the “Message with a Bottle” blog, I have to admit, I didn’t get too far into this one. Because the very first lie that this 30-something mom refuses to tell herself is this:

I will no longer pretend that I’m young

Age really is relative, isn’t it? No matter how many 80-year-olds point a finger at me and proclaim, “YOUTH,” there need only be one 20-something to remind me that I’m pretty much ancient. Go hang out with someone fresh out of college if you doubt me. They’ll be like, “Let’s do shots!” and you’ll be all, “Ugh, just a half a glass of wine, please, that’s all I can handle tonight.”

I throw the bullshit flag on that so hard that I throw out my shoulder and dent the ground with the thing.

First.

Moms.

ENOUGH WITH THE WINE. What is this nonsense where moms are like “oooohhhhh lookey at MEEEEE I love wine!!” We get it, your kids drive you to drink. Newsflash, this started about 16 generations ago. Get with the times.

But second, and far more important, is this crap:

“I’m pretty much ancient.”

I get it. Hyperbole. Hilarious!!!

Now stop it.

For one thing, I didn’t go around in my 20s taking shots every night of the week, and I happen to know a lot of 20-somethings, and they don’t either. I had a job. Then later, I had a KID. Those shot-takers who you cannot keep up with? They aren’t 20-somehtings, they are drunks. No one likes a drunk, not even a recent college grad.

But more importantly, it actually puts true sadness in my (apparently ancient since I’m not even a 30-something mom, I’m a fragile 42-year-old) heart to hear young people lament the loss of their youth, even in jest.

If your age is 30-something… you’re not old

Also not old — 40-somethings and 50-somethings. If you’re 60-somethings, you’re on the threshold. Maybe.

Why do people do this to themselves, this “I’m so old” nonsense. Of all the ways I love to poke at myself, age is not one of them. If you’re already doing the “oh my *deep sigh* I’m soooooo old” and you’re just in your 30s, how the hell do you expect to chase around your teenager. Because trust me — you NEED to chase them around.

You’re too old in your 30s? Aw, honey, middle school moms are going to EAT YOU ALIVE.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time, realizing that my little ones are not so little anymore.

But I’m reminded daily that while I’m 20 years out of college, I’m young as all get out. I don’t need to be 20-something to be young. I just need to be alive to be young.

My kid is going to high school next year. I look forward to him trying to keep up with his young mom.

So apparently, these days, in my quest to become my mother, I have slipped it into serious high gear.

My mother has this minor summertime obsession with hummingbirds. She gets a feeder, she hangs it, she watches. She and my father battle the squirrels. More sugar water. More watching. More battles.

I won’t lie, hummingbirds are fairly fascinating.

Except when my mother calls them “hummers.” Then they are horrifying.

Anyway, for some reason, this year I decided maybe I should get in on the bird feeding game (what? if Candy Crush can be a “game” then so can feeding the birds). I saw a few finches, I heard a cardinal. I had ENOUGH of winter and thought, “I’ll put a feeder up.”

But what I didn’t know was that hanging a bird feeder is step number one into the abyss of crazy bird lady.

It starts innocently enough.

I’ll put the feeder in this tree while there’s still a little snow on the ground, give those birdies something to snack on.

But it quickly progresses.

This feeder is easier for them to use and OH MY GOD SHE’S LOOKING AT ME! WE’RE FRIENDS!

Then she brings the gang.

And they all love me!!!

Then your husband is like “how much did you spend on bird seed” and you’re like

OH MY GOD I can’t talk to you right now there’s a bird IN A TREE. DO YOU SEE IT???? *runs to store for more seed*

Then suddenly it’s all

What the hell is this crap?

And

I wonder what they *really* taste like.

Followed by

OH MY GOD I can’t believe there are ducks on the pond!!! Get some bread!

And the money shot:

Official Cardinal sighting!!!!!!!

I mean, never mind that there are something like 100-million cardinals out there and they are hardly a rare sighting. LOOK!

The obsession. It almost hurts yo.

Must. Do. More.

Now, y’all know that there is not a crafty bone in my body (but there’s a dirty joke in that sentence if you look for it hard enough – bah dum dum). So I don’t generally post how-to guides for ANYTHING other than how to be awesome, which is less of a guide and really just the story of my life.

But for real – no longer satisfied just feeding the birds, I started MAKING them bird feeders.

Seriously.

You must try it. DIY Bird Feeders! Go!

Supplies

TP rolls

Peanut butter

Bird seed

Too much time on your hands

Step 1 – Rifle through the trash and find toilet paper rolls and paper towel rolls. Pull off any remnants of TP and slather with peanut butter.

Step 2 – Put your seed in a bowl, then press your sticky rolls (heh) into the seed and roll it all around.

Step 4 – Place your new seed covered peanut butter sticky thingy bird feeders (copyright pending) around your yard and watch the birds yell at you and perhaps begin a dive-bombing campaign for being in their space before realizing that you are the crazy humanoid thing who keeps feeding them, then they allow it for up to 47 seconds (and no longer).

That’s it! Now just sit around and watch because you literally have nothing else to do find time in your busy schedule to check on the feeders from time to time and watch your birds enjoy!

Bonus! If you put them on the ends of really delicate branches, the birds can get to them, but the squirrels fall to the ground as they try. It’s hil-AR-i-ous. For a minute or two. But yeah sooner or later the squirrels will figure out how to get them and just take them and run but still it was nice to watch for a minute.

Bonus times two — check out my supreme laziness turned “hey not a bad idea” out there:

I wanted a bird bath, but they are SPENDY, and if they are not, they are CHEAP and CRAP. So I put this pie plate from the dollar store in a plant stand I already had, put some rocks in it so it wouldn’t blow away, and VOILA! Bird bath.

I’m a freaking genius. Didn’t even see that at my mother’s house first.

Now of course, the downfall of my little TP roll feeders is that I couldn’t get close enough to one with a bird on it without said bird, well, flipping me the bird. So my enjoyment was limited to this:

Can you see him? It’s a brown headed cowbird. What? That’s a REAL THING.

Every 20-something has the same thing happen to them. A moment in time (and that moment may last an extended period) when they are just. so. stupid. And in this moment of idiocy, they mutter things like “I’ll never…” They’re having some sort of lame quasi-protest of things they’ll never do. They don’t actually have a reason for finding it unacceptable, yet they lack the skills to just say, “meh, I don’t like that.”

So rather than just not comment on something they dislike, or comment that it’s not their thing, they proclaim!! that they will NEVER….

Case in point:

Oh my god I will NEVER drive a minivan!!

That was pretty much the mantra of my generation. Lord help you if you did anything as horrifying as get behind the wheel of one of these. For god’s sake, why not just un-pop your collar or wear *gasp* bootcut jeans.

Well, sooner or later, you realize, as horrifying as it is, you are that age — you gotta have the minivan. And even if you never ACTUALLY drive one, you’re more like, meh. I’m sure there are things far worse, far more embarrassing. OTHER things that I would NEVER do.

Well, ladies, you’re doing it.

And it’s this:

OH MY GOD Y’ALL!

It’s *WINE* time!!!

There’s this whole Pinterest “movement” I’ll call it, and it’s all about the love of WINE! They have JOKES!

Get it? Ha ha!! You know that you can BUY that? Someone will print that out for you and send it to you. But you have to pay for it. And that person is probably a genius, because she knows that people are so drunk on wine that they’ll buy ANYTHING.

It’s the thing that the cool kids are looking at and thinking, oh my god, HOW DO I AVOID THAT?

I. Will. Never…

Not all of them. Sure, some of them are perfectly capable of appreciating a decent glass of wine. Just like some folks were perfectly capable of not giving a damn what they were driving, as long as it went.

But for the most part, dudes. You’re like, MAKING SOME SERIOUS LOVE to your wine. It’s pornographic. You’re all “ooooohhhhhhhh wine” because you don’t seem to know that it’s a drink. It can’t hear you. It’s old fruit, fruit that got so old, it went all stinky, and then someone was like “ah cool I’ll squeeze it into a bottle, some fool will drink it” and YOU ARE THE FOOL.

There was a time when you were like “how can I avoid being the weirdo that my mother is” and now you ARE. Maybe her vice wasn’t wine. Maybe it was Gloria Vanderbilt jeans or Dr. Scholl’s flip flops or Canfield’s Diet Chocolate Soda. But it was weird and changed her and you SWORE but LOOK. Look at you dude. LOOK.

And all the regular wine drinkers are like, ah man, suburban moms are KILLING MY WINE!

I mean, for the love.

Not only are you drinking what I can only assume are pound and pounds of old grapes in a single sitting, then you justify it by PLAYING WITH THE GARBAGE:

It’s not just that these are do-it-yourself wine garbage crafts, but there are TEN of them.

Including stuff like this:

Forever is today?

What?

That doesn’t even make SENSE. And how many CORKS is that? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, holy shit I cannot possibly keep counting because NOW I’M SAD.

And those 10 DIY Wine Garbage Projects are one of the SMALLER suggestions on these here internets for what to do with your used corks.

I mean:

That’s FURNITURE.

Furniture made with WINE CORKS. And it is one of THIRTY suggestions on this particular drunkenenabling crafting page.

Not to worry, though. You can make furniture out of your beer bottles too.

But it’s not really presented in quite the crafty quaint fun loving Pinteresty way. If you’re a beer drinker, the suggestions are more along the lines of:

Yes. Because nothing says “I drink too much” like shards of glass in your bum as you sit on the dock by the bay. You make a cork buffet, and you are AMAZING. But you make one of these bad boys, and your parents and siblings are suddenly holding an intervention. Maybe if you stenciled “Forever is Today” across the side it would be classier.

Seriously.

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS EVEN?

Wine is stupid. And it tastes bad. I want the wine movement to go AWAY and to take its Pinterest pages with it. And to stop giving women a bad name. We don’t all love you, wine! We don’t!!!

“You walk outside, you risk your life. You take a drink of water, you risk your life. Nowadays you breathe and you risk your life. You don’t have a choice. The only thing you can choose is what you’re risking it for.”

Yeah, deliver a speech like that, you’re probably going to get your head cut off sooner or later.

OH MY GOD Y’ALL I have such a problem. The Walking Dead is coming back on Sunday, and I am LEGIT pissed that it’s taking so long. I need my Darryl. I need my Rick. For God’s sake, I miss Beth’s singing. I’m quoting Herschel. Then wanting to cry. BECAUSE HE IS DEAD.

(hey, did ANYONE go stab his head, or is he headless Herschel laying on the ground all “gaarrrhhhhhh” outside the prison?)

I’m not alone, yo. It’s like I KNOW them. And I am so sad that they’re not here right now. I need them. I have serious issues. Do you?

Top 9 Signs You Have Serious Issues With The Walking Dead

#9 ~ You have weapons.

Sure, it’s the winter that won’t end. Even the people *IN* the *ACTUAL* Atlanta have had to go out and buy a shovel. But you’re not content to buy a new shovel. You bought a set. With a flat-edge ice pick. For one reason and one reason only.

You are smashing some walker skull with this.

#8 ~ You won’t go thirsty.

That water cooler looks like the one your Grandma had. And all those fools with their “save their environment” Tervis cups are going to be BEGGING you for a drink because you have a house full of water jugs and not tiny little rainforest friendly recyclable bottles.

You know what the rainforest has?

WALKERS.

#7 ~ You’re unapologetically hoarding.

You’re avoiding taking boxes to good will, because you’re going to need some towels and extra clothes when the washing machines disappear into the abyss.

#6 ~ You have made an actual list of the clothing items you will bring with you to the Zombie Apocalypse.

Nope.

Nope.

There you go. Also, you’ll be stealing all your husband’s clothing. Don’t worry. He isn’t going to make it. You’ll have to put him down with this:

Yes, this again. Told you it would come in handy. Sorry Jim.

#5 ~ There are not enough notebooks in the world.

Because you need to literally rewrite history, and there’s all these notebooks on sale at Walmart. And make bizzaro check marks a la The Governor trying to fix the walkers. You’ll collect pencils and pencil sharpeners too, don’t worry, you’ve thought of it all.

#4 ~ You’ve taken to collecting razors.

You found the $4 razor store on Amazon. And you’re planning on looking like Maggie after the End of Days, so you’re gonna need to shave.

#3 ~ You have palates of this.

And you don’t want to admit it, but you think you’ve figured out a legitimate way to make it all work. It won’t even be gross.

#2 ~ This pisses you off.

When people tell you they want Darryl and Carol to have a romantic relationship, you think about stabbing them with your pencil. The one you are using to rewrite history. The history where Darryl loves you. Because your husband is dead. Remember, you smashed his skull with this:

He deserved it.

And you’ll drive it into Carol’s head too if she touches your man.

And the #1 sign you have serious issues with The Walking Dead ~ When someone utters the words “well in the comic book……..”

BOOM. Right in the face with this:

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up about the comic book.

If I wanted to read a comic book, I’d go steal my brother’s X-Men collection. Of course it’s different. In the comic (or, shall we call it a “graphic novel” so as not to hurt the feelings of the people who need pictures but don’t want to admit it) Shane dies early and Herschel has like 1,000 kids and Andrea and Dale are GETTING IT ON. And Carol is kind of straight then gay then tri-curious (wants to take a try at walkers, it does NOT end well) and The Governor looks like Captain Jack Sparrow and Maggie and Glen shave their heads and I didn’t have the patience to find out why.

AND THERE IS NO DARRYL DIXON.

The comic book sucks. Stop telling me they aren’t the same, unless you throw the words THANK GOD after that.

Look, I can even dress the part if I need to fit in, THAT is how ready I am.

It’s well-known in these parts (these parts being the walls that make up my house) that I just really hate winter.

I hate it.

Hate.

I don’t actually hate the season. I’m fine with snow and sledding and lighting the fire (except when I fill the house with smoke, shut up Jim). I like winter sports and Lord knows I’m not going to argue with kids in school from 8-3.

But the COLD. It’s just so… cold. I’m sick of having my lady nips enter the room five minutes before I do. I’m sick of my snots freezing inside my nose. I’m sick of chapped lips and cracked skin and toes that just won’t warm up. I’m sick of the fact that a Dutch Oven ain’t so bad, because at least it’s warm.

But I have to admit, I have a guilty pleasure in winter. And it’s that every time I see this:

I am utterly compelled to kick it, until it does this:

OH MERCY SWEET RELEASE! THANK YOU SWEET MOTHER OF LIFE!

The under-carriage snow hitchhikers. They grab on to your car and beg — BEG — to be kicked off. And I comply. Oh how I comply.

I comply so hard, I do it to the vehicles of strangers in parking lots at the mall. I look around from left, to right, behind me, feeling guilty. Dirty? No.

Bad.

So bad.

Then…..

*kick*

YES! YES! YES!

Jim doesn’t like it when I do it in the garage. The slop and wetness all over the concrete where the cars sit is too messy for him. But he otherwise also happily engages in this winter hobby. There is no shoe too wet, no toes too sore, no car alarm set off too loudly to make me stop.

The lady who lived across the street and a few houses down was turning 40. FORTY! I thought, how is she not dead? She was turning 40, and her husband got up early and erected a big old sign in the front lawn.

“Good Lordy, Whats-her-name is 40!”

(I can’t remember what her first name was, I am certain he used it though, and did not call her Whats-her-name.)

I heard my Mom and the biddies some of the other upstanding adult women from the neighborhood gossiping engaging in intelligent conversation based only on facts and not conjecture about the big four-oh for Whats-her-name, and it appeared that her gift back to him for his surprise was a nice packet of divorce papers.

Forty-year-olds, I thought, are weird.

Huh.

I really wondered if I would not handle 40 well. Would I curl up in the corner denying the age process? Would I do something stupid to prove I’m still young (I mean, I am — go ask a group of Baby Boomers if they think 40 is old) like jump out of a high place with only a hand-sewn piece of rayon to keep me from splattering to earth? Would I storm into Forever 21 demanding service?

As it turns out, though, I’m not even a little bit annoyed. I’m so unbothered to be 40, the only thing bothering me is why I’m not more bothered. I think, maybe, it’s helpful to be the youngest of five. When everyone goes through it first, including one of them hitting the big FIVE-oh before you even get to FOUR-oh…

…well, then maybe you just aren’t as annoyed or scared or desperate to divorce your husband at 40 like old Mrs. Whats-her-name was.

I did wake up with a sore hip.

But rather than LAMENT the passing of time, I decided to take a look back at the last decade. Did I spend my time wisely in my 30’s? Was I properly mature and responsible while still being fun and full of awesome (I think we all know it’s a resounding YES to the awesome part, but that’s just a given). Did I properly leave my 30’s as a graduated member of the Generation X Dirty-30 Club, as well as an honored and respectable alumna of Volvo-Driving Soccer Mom University (those might actually be the same thing).

In pictures, I think, it looks like I had a good time.

Let’s take a look!

Age 30 ~ I couldn’t find any digital photos, so at a minimum, I really AM showing my age. Here I am with a sweet two-year-old Hank.

Age 31 ~ Fulfilled Mom and Dad’s dream by finding some fool to marry me and take me and my kid off their hands. They actually would have preferred if I left Hank behind, but as it turns out, he was Jim’s dowry.

Age 32 ~ I spent most of this year with a baby either in my uterus or attached to a bosom or hip.

How cute is George?

And how enormous are my jugs?

Age 33 ~ I looked sexy in yellow.

And I inappropriately sat on Jesus’ lap.

Age 34 ~ I continued the family tradition of getting your father drunk, and looking uncomfortable at the fair, and making sure to suck in when you stand next to a pregnant woman for a photo so you look extra skinny!!.

Age 35 ~ 8th Grade reunion? Yes please! It’s weird that I’m the only one in the photo proudly holding my beer, right?

And of course, we took this sweet shot with Brendan. Big dumb loveable jerk.

Age 36 ~ Kayla and I got dressed all sassy and took photos and went out boozing. It was just like the decade before, only we came home at a reasonable hour because it’s only wise to get a good night’s sleep.

Age 37 ~ The ladies of the Chick Shack visit the big cracked bell. Like you don’t want to party with us. After George graduated I made him get a job, then I relived my younger days by driving to Kansas City on a whim for a ball game with Kayla. Where we again got a decent night’s sleep so we would be refreshed for driving home the next day…

Age 38 ~ If there is one year where pictures show my endless battle with my weight, it’s age 38. First I ran and drank.

Then I took more photos with this fatty.

Then we ruled the field at unaffiliated minor league ball park.

And I mud raced!(this left quite an ass bruise)

And I turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but at least I finally got to see Ireland!

Age 39 ~ Determined to get my body back in a shape other than round. First I ran another 13.1 miles without even being chased.

Then I held hands with the KGB.

Models became my besties for a brief moment in time.

I died.

I conquered!

So as you can see, I think I took advantage of all the things there are for a woman in her 30’s to take advantage of. I reproduced. I suckered a man into marriage fell in love. I got fat. I got less fat. I went places. I met new people. I exercised. I saw historical artifacts! I made Kayla take photos with me TWICE while pregnant so I looked skinny. I had just a few drinks.

And I managed this:

Granted, this might be more meaningful at 46 or 51, but I was excited, yo. Because Fatty Marney didn’t fit in that a year ago.

So how did 40 start?

Eating breakfast take-out while checking out my new John Denver Greatest Hits album while wearing my Mrs. Kenny readers.